


To Make The Noise That I Kept So Quiet

by maythefoursbewithyou



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: M/M, basically just listen to 'friends will be friends' by queen and that sums up this fic tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 10:24:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13568613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maythefoursbewithyou/pseuds/maythefoursbewithyou
Summary: What happens when you deal with grief - and your sexuality - by burying your feelings?Tom Latham and Henry Nicholls come to the rescue, that's what.





	To Make The Noise That I Kept So Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Pitseleh' by Elliott Smith.
> 
> July/August, 2011. Corey Anderson has left Christchurch for Tauranga, where he hopes to work his way into the Northern Districts team. 
> 
> There was a huge devastating earthquake in Christchurch on February 22nd, of which mention is made. 
> 
> In terms of The Matt and Corey Chronicles, the events in this story take place after 'A Canterbury Crush' and before 'North Then South Then Back Again'.

_Galatians 3: 28_

_There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free person, there is not male and female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus._

*

There is no warmth in the air, despite the blemish-free sun blasting from an angle into the courtyard of the garden centre. Matt is rugged up in thermals, jeans and a coat. He's tending to flora in terracotta pots, the hardy ones that can withstand freezing nights outdoors on the plain of a seaside city in the south. He's watering and arranging as he goes, making note of saplings that are weary-looking, and taking them aside to ascertain whether they need repotting, less water, or a turn indoors to break up the bracing brunt of winter. 

He wanders back indoors, into the front section of the shop, about to start a stocktake of the seeds when the ring of a doorbell heralds the arrival of a customer, coming through the glass double doors. It's been a characteristically quiet day; in the cold, no-one is much in the spirit for gardening, which translates to a slow day at the nursery. Matt has grown accustomed to looking up from his work whenever the entrance bell tingles, and making a cursory assessment of what he might expect from the encounter. This time, he thinks, as a short, stocky man in his twenties comes in, probably it'll be gifts for a family member. The customer heads in the direction of the courtyard, toward the saplings and shrubs, and it's only then that Matt can make out his face, and register that it's Tom. Tom Latham, whom he hasn't seen for months - not since the sun set on the cricket season. Anyone could make out those bushy eyebrows at long range. Matt feels a pang of regret that he hasn't been in contact with Tom or Toey in this length of time, has let the friendships that started to burgeon over the summer subside.

It's all seemed like too much effort, what with all that water under the bridge. There's been too much nebulous stuff in the way, a measure of inconvenience about it. Not inconvenience, exactly, but potential for awkwardness, for loaded pauses and uncomfortable conversations. It's been easier just to leave it alone, to try and get back to some semblance of normality, to the way things were a year ago.

In his head, at least. But in truth, nothing is the same, and even normal is a concept that's shifted from its original meaning. These days, normal means getting used to everything shaking - the Earth, and Matt's very sense of self. If there once was an equilibrium to return to, Matt can't locate it anymore: it's buried, like parts of the Christchurch CBD, under rubble. Doesn't stop him trying to dig it out in frantic, blind efforts. 

So Tom's walked into his place of work, and Matt has the sensation of being rooted to the spot, to the tiled floor, fixed firm, as though he himself were trapped by some unnamable, immovable weight. It turns out that even this forest, this garden of a job throws up little reminders of things he'd rather forget. Pot plants and feijoa trees forever polluted by association with someone that he used to know. Tom's carrying a baby conifer and some succulents, and heading right for the seeds. They lock eyes, and Matt can see Tom brighten in recognition of him. Even though he'd like to make a quick getaway to the staff room - which he can't do, because he's sole charge today - Matt grins at Tom. After all, they are friends, and it's not Tom's fault that his presence stirs up memories that Matt has been wishing were safely under the earth.

'So this is where you work. I wondered when I'd bump into you,' Tom says, by way of greeting.

Matt clasps him by the shoulder. 'Long time, no see, eh?'

'Yeah, where have you been, mate? Did you get a new phone number or something? I sent you some texts and never heard back.'

A knot of guilt turns Matt's stomach, hearing the note of rejection in Tom's voice. He never meant for anyone to get hurt, figured ghosting him wouldn't be a big deal. 'Yeah, ah, the months have sort of flown, haven't they? Things got a bit busy. My family and my church, ah, I've been helping them out a lot since the big one,' Matt explains, and it's not entirely a lie, but it's not exactly the truth either, but it will do as a convenient excuse.

If Tom notices his shifty eye contact, he doesn't show it. 

'How've you been, though, Tom?' Matt asks. He's keen to show an interest now, having let the connection slide too long. It's probably time he manned up and got over all the difficulty he associates with him.

'Yeah, alright, I spose. I've been cracking on with uni papers and stuff. I'm living with Toey now - moved in temporarily, cos, you know, it didn't take long to get sick of living with the 'rents, and now that their plumbing and damage is all fixed up they don't need me round as much. So yeah, just gonna green Toey's place up a bit, maybe plant a vege garden. Til I find a place of my own. Decent housing's hard to come by at the moment.'

With anyone else, this would be an opening to offer sales assistance, but that can wait. 'Nice,' Matt says. 'And how's Toey?'

Tom smiles broadly. 'Oh, you know him. Never a dull moment. I'm attempting to teach him something about personal space, but he's a lousy student.'

Matt could believe it too, and he laughs. He's struck by how much he misses these two, even though their friendship was only in formative stages when he accidentally-on-purpose drifted away from them. 'Tell him I said hi, won't you?'

'Sure,' Tom shrugs. 'So what's new with you?'

Not knowing where I fit, is the reply that rings in Matt's ears. 'Same old same old, mostly. Working and trying to keep warm and trying to civilize my flatmate. My church got pretty munted, so I've been helping Mum and Dad fundraise in the weekends. We're trying to get funds together to build a new facility. But the rest of the week I'm just here.'

There's a quiet moment between them now, in which neither is sure what to say. For Matt's part, he suspects this is the section of the conversation where someone would ordinarily suggest hanging out - but passively, he'd rather it weren't him. If the idea came from him, it might say too much about him, about who he is, something that he doesn't let himself think or say out loud. Guilt by association, or something like that. And then, he knows darned well that if they were to spend time together, inevitable questions would surface. About the "C" word. C with a capital letter. Going there is going to take a lot of internal preparation. He's got the baggage for that trip alright, but he's not sure he wants to claim it.

Tom clears his throat, eventually, but he doesn't ask Matt over. Why would he bother, when Matt has ignored all his prior texts to that effect? Instead, he asks which seeds he should buy for planting now with an eye to a spring harvest. There's a sickly mixture of relief and sadness in Matt's response. The invitation to play his retail role makes performing a little easier - he knows who he is in this context, what's expected of him, no curly ones. But it's looking more and more like Tom will leave the store with his purchases and no commitment to picking up the friendship where they left off. Leaving Matt alone to his uneasy life of family, work and church friends. 

He gives his sales pitch with little enthusiasm. He's too annoyed with himself. 

He makes one more attempt to engage Tom in conversation, while he helps him carry his plants and seeds to the counter. 'I heard you and Toey both made it. First class contracts. So we'll be seeing a lot of each other this summer.' 

He rings up the prices on the till.

'Guess you're stuck with us,' Tom's tone is sarcastic. 

'I didn't mean to leave it so long,' Matt says, wise to how defensive he sounds. 

'How much?'

Matt sighs. '$37.45'.

Matt wraps the potplants in newspaper, packs the seed packets in a plastic bag for Tom. Tom pays. He picks up his items and leaves with a goodbye, neither warm nor unfriendly.

That didn't go well. But Matt, he has his phone, and another idea.

He brings up his messages, and keys in Henry's name as recipient.

_Toey. Matty here. Offer still on for an ear to chew? Could use it eh._

*

'Matt. It's Toey. So you're looking for an agony aunt?' Crosslegged, Toey sits on his bed in his flat, admiring the new rubber tree Tom bought him, in it's new home underneath the windows. 'Even you couldn't kill this plant,' Tom had said of it, as he placed it in the sunny window box.

At the other end of the phone connection, Matt speaks hesitantly. He sounds troubled, the poor poppet. 'Yeah, ah, hi Toey. Listen, sorry to get in contact out of the blue like this. I'm just a bit stuck at the moment and ahh... You know what, don't worry about it. You've got better things to do than listen to my problems.'

'That's probably true,' Toey opts for banter, gauging that it'll likely make Matt feel at ease. 'But Mary, I was born for this gig.'

'Please don't call me Mary,' Matt says quietly. Jesus, he really is in a hole. Toey's going to have to play this carefully, coax his big gangly legs forward in tiny toddler-sized steps.

'Sorry, Matt, I'll be serious. Of course! I've always got time for you. You sound a bit spooked, and, the way I see it, you got in touch with me for a reason, so you might as well see where it takes you. Cos if you back out of it now, I'll wind up inviting myself over to your flat with Timtams and tissues, and I don't know if you're ready for that.'

'I'm not?' Matt asks, as though he's looking for guidance on his own opinions. 

Henry squints his eyes shut, glad that Matt can't see him making world-weary faces. 'Don't ask me, precious. I'm not in your head.'

After another long pause, Matt speaks again, tentatively, as though he's about to pedal without training wheels for the first time. 'I think I might want you to come over with Timtams? Not tissues though. It's not like anyone's gonna cry or anything.'

'No, of course not,' Toey says, sardonically, and then holds the phone away from his face to better disguise his snickering. Matt, what a lamb, what a babe in the woods. This whole babyhomo journey he's on reminds Toey of his own better-trodden path, and he feels a fuzzy parental mixture of empathy and amusement bearing witness to it. When he's sufficiently regained his composure, he draws the phone back to his ear. 'I think I could fit you in my hectic schedule,' he tells Matt. 'I might even have time to pick up some Timtams on the way. So I'll see you in about half an hour?'

On the other end, Matt sounds like the kind of grateful when someone reaches out a hand to pull you onto a liferaft. 'Thank you so much. Just, ah,' he begins, but curtly dismisses his unvoiced thought. 'No, it can wait til you get here. Just - thank you,' he echoes himself.

'Don't mention it,' Toey replies. 'Or if you do, once is enough. Hang in there Matty. It's gonna be ok.'

And he hangs up, and wriggles his phone back into the pocket of his trackies. 

Within moments, Tom bursts into the bedroom and closes the door behind him. 'How'd it go, gay Dad?'

' _Actually_ , I'm his agony aunt,' Toey corrects him. He shifts over to make room on the bed for Tom to recline. 'He sounds a bit low, so I'm gonna head over there in a minute.'

'Aiming for father of the year are we?' Tom grins, giving Toey a cheeky shoulder punch. 

'Ow quit it!' Toey whines, and then lifts his bottom, pushing himself up with his arms, the better to sit back down again right on Tom's middle.

'Oof,' Tom grunts. 'Your new gym regimen has it's downsides.'

'Meh, you love it,' Toey retorts, smug, until his bubble is deflated by some sharp finger jabs under the ribs. 'Right, that does it,' he says, and grabs Tom by the wrists to halt the irritating pokey onslaught, and leans forward, pinning Tom's arms into the bed, on either side of his head. Their faces are just a few centimetres apart now, and even from his compromised position, squirming against Toey's grip, the glimmer in Tom's eye is playful, egging him on. All this sass Toey finds irresistible, and he's drawn to close the gap between them, lips first. Ever so briefly. And as he rounds off the kiss, pulling back, Tom admonishes him. 

'Tease.'

'Takes one to know one,' Toey says in a childish singsong voice, and then snaps back to reality. 'I'm sorry babe. Places to go, people to see. Emergency closet-coaxings to perform. I'm a busy man. Keep the bed warm for me though, won't you?'

In one swift movement, he releases Tom and climbs off him, slipping off the bed and poking his toes in some trainers. 

'Yeah, well don't stay out too late, or I might find a substitute.'

Toey pouts back at him, as he snatches up his car keys and wallet from his rimu bureau, the one that's flush with the wall behind the door. 

'Say hi to Matty from me. Make sure he knows he's welcome here anytime.'

Toey laughs. 'You should have told him that when you saw him this morning, dicknut.'

*

'Visitor for you,' Ryan jeers from the back porch. 

'SHHHH!' Matt hushes him, not bothering to turn around and see who it is. It could only be Henry anyway. He's kneeling on the cold concrete halfway down the garden path that leads to the clothesline, knees freezing through his jeans, concentrating on a rather bedraggled-looking cat posed a few metres away. The cat, a stripey brown/grey tabby, seems on a knife edge, sniffing the air, scanning for danger. Matt has a fistful of cat biscuits, and he slowly, carefully, stretches his arm out toward the cat, and dribbles the biscuits onto the footpath, one biscuit at a time. In response, the tabby twitches nervously, but she doesn't run away. The twitching of her nostrils suggests she smells something she might be interested in.

'I never know who he'll bring home next,' Ryan murmurs.

'Pussy, though?' Henry says. 'Do you think it's a phase?'

'Ask him,' says Ryan.

Matt swivels his head around, accusatory. 'You're scaring her!' Then he turns back to the task at hand. He drops the last of the biscuits from his palm and draws his hand away. Kitty crouches low and makes a dash for the bikky-pile, grabbing as many as she can between her canines and retreating to a safe distance to crunch them down. 

'She's eating the biscuits!' Matt beams at Ryan and Henry. He's been working up to this encounter with the cat for about a week now, each evening after work inching a little closer to this guest in the garden. And now, for her to eat the biscuits while he's sitting so near at hand, it's got to be a sign that she is starting to trust him. 

A lot of animals were lost and disoriented in the February quake, and Matt suspects she might be one of them. Or maybe she's just your garden variety stray cat. Either way, she looks like she could use a friend.

And so could he.

When she has made her last toothy voyage to the biscuit pile, she slinks away into a bush. Under the foliage, her green eyes shine, reflecting the back porch light.

Matt gets up, his knees achey from being pressed against concrete for so long.

'Thanks for coming Toey. I see Ryan didn't bother to offer you a drink. I reckon I'll have more success domesticating the cat than him.'

'Harsh,' says Ryan.

'I'll have a hot chocolate if you don't mind,' Henry requests. 

They file back indoors, into the kitchen. Matt fills a small pot with milk.

'How come no-one offered me a hot drink?' whines Ryan. 'I feel so left out.'

Matt places the pot on an element, and switches it up to about mid-heat. 'I suppose I can boil some milk for you. But as for the cocoa and sugar, it'll cost you."

'Is my eternal gratitude valid currency around here?'

'Not really. Your gratitude has a life span of about 10 seconds.'

'Okay, okay! I'll put the rubbish out next Monday!' says Ryan, as though this is a massive imposition.

'Be careful.' Matt grins. 'Wouldn't want you to break a nail.' He opens the cupbord above the bench and pulls down a few mugs.

It's only then he remembers his guest.

'Toey!' he exclaims, pivoting on the ball of his foot. 'How are you?' He folds his ginger friend up in a hug - a quick one involving a few manly pats on the back.

'You call that a hug?' says Henry. 'God, you're such a boy. Try again or I'm giving you a D minus.'

Matt rolls his eyes. 'Didn't know I was being graded.'

'Go on. You can do better. I believe in you.'

'Good grief,' mutters Matt, but all the same, he awkwardly wraps his arms around Henry, having to stoop a little to meet his height. He puts more squeeze into it, and less back-patting. The contact feels - for a moment - soothing.

It hearkens back to last summer, to sharing hot embraces with someone he let into bed only to be left alone there, high and dry. His arms drop to his sides as though lifeless.

'It's an improvement, I guess,' Henry concedes, and Matt manoeuvres back into his personal bubble. Seeing the sudden accentuation of the dark circles under Matt's eyes, though, he decides to nip this line of conversation in the bud. Dude looks haunted. The three of them stand around the kitchen, shifting limbs and clearing throats awkwardly. The growing rumble of the pot on the stovetop cuts the tension, and in a rare moment of domesticity - and sensitivity, Ryan moves the pot off the element before the milk can burn, and switches the stove off, offering to make up the drinks. He shoos Matt and Toey away, out of the kitchen. 'Let me handle this. You guys should go catch up.'

Matt leads Toey down the hallway, to the lounge, one of the front rooms in the flat. Its decorated with wallpaper and carpet from some bygone era, probably the eighties but who is old enough to know? The black curtains are pulled, shutting out the soft pink glow of street lamps. Matt reclines on the sofa, opposite the north-facing windows, while Toey takes the armchair in the northwest corner, adjacent to the huge HDTV setup. 

'Tom mentioned he bumped into you this morning,' he begins. 'Where've you been all winter, mate?'

His host still hasn't recovered from the hug though, hasn't pulled himself off the dark path it set him down. The question bamboozles him, underscoring the loneliness of the last six months - the fact that he's plunged back into a family and community that he hides pieces of himself from. He's been trying to coast along on the waves, but some crosscurrent he can't fight drifts him away. Back to the same damned place.

'It's complicated,' Matt offers by way of explanation.

'You've a gift for stating the obvious.'

Before Henry can needle further, Ryan bursts in with impeccable timing and a pair of steaming mugs. With some chagrin, Matt notices that the mug Ryan is pressing into Henry's hands is emblazoned with a photo of Matt, circa age 5, kiddy cricket bat in hand before some pint-sized stumps, grinning as though he's having the best day of his life. 'Happy 18th birthday Matt,' reads the bold font beneath the image. It was part of a gift from his family, and he keeps it hidden at the back of the kitchen cupboard. Ryan must have found it, rummaging around, and trucked it out for it's embarrassment potential. 

'Cheers Ryan,' Toey says, cupping the mug in his palms so as to warm up his cold paws. 'Wow, this mug is amazing. Where can I get one?'

As embarrassing as the mug is, Matt's never been able to bring himself to toss it out. It reminds him of simpler times, of safety, of belonging, of feelings he'd do anything to replicate if only he knew how. 'Mum's probably got a whole box of 'em. But there I go, giving you ideas,' he adds quickly. He takes the second mug that Ryan is holding out to him, turning the rim quickly so as not to scorch his fingers, until the handle is within his grasp. 

'Ill leave you guys to it,' says Ryan. 'I'm sure I've got some football highlights to watch...' and he makes his exit, closing the living room door behind him.

'Things didn't used to be this complicated,' says Matt, at last, somewhat comforted by the taste of hot sweet chocolate hitting all the right taste buds and warming him up on its way down his throat.

'Are you sure things were easier before?' Henry asks. 'Or is it that the difficult stuff was easier to avoid?'

Matt has no answer to this, except a sad little downturn to one corner of his mouth.

'I thought once Corey was out of my life,' he admits, 'that I could just pick up from where I was before he came in, and carry on. But it's starting to look like I can't, and I think that's what you're trying to tell me.'

'Oh sunshine,' Henry says, and sighs. 'You can try, but you'll never really be able to bury that part of yourself. It might change shape and form over time but it'll always be a part of who you are.'

'But I don't want it to be.' Matt knows he sounds childish and stubborn, but he says it all the same, knowing that he's not going to be able to figure everything out by keeping this locked inside him. He's spent the better part of the year doing exactly that, and all its achieved is to keep him miserable.

'It doesn't have to be that way, Matt. There's nothing wrong with you, except you've been brainwashed into thinking there is.'

The use of language here gets Matt's hackles up. 'Catholicism isn't a cult, Toey. I'm not brainwashed.'

'Of course not,' Henry says, quick to assuage any defensiveness. He puts his half-empty baby-Matty-mug on the speaker beside him. 'I didn't mean your faith. I meant our whole society. We're not allowed to get married, or adopt children. And that's just those of us who want to live like straight people do. Those of us who don't, society hates even more.'

Not wanting to live like straight people? Matt can't hazard a guess as to what Henry means by this. What other way is there to live? But before he can voice this question, Toey has more to say.

'What I meant is, it makes sense that you don't want to be gay. I didn't either; most of us don't choose it. We've been lied to all our lives, made to feel like wanting to be with other men is gross and perverted. But it's not. I've learned to see through the bullshit, Matt. It's not me that's fucked up. What's fucked up is a society that tries to make me hate myself for no valid reason.'

This reminds Matt of something Corey said in the summertime. Not long after he'd taken a shiner from one of Matt's church friends.

'So yeah, when I was younger, I thought homosexuality was wrong too. But now I'm proud of who I am. And there's nothing in the world that could entice me back into that internalised homophobia crap. Nothing.'

So much to sift through in Toey's speech. Matt can't fathom pride in being gay, but Toey's example is a big bright full moon of hope on a wintry night. He wants to catch it, hold it if he can.

'I'd give anything to be where you're at,' he tells Henry.

'You should hang out with me and Tommy then,' Toey says, with some emphasis, shifting in his seat before softening his tone again. 'Look, it's not going to be easy or instant. There's a lot you'll need to figure out and come to terms with. There'll be lonely times and sleepless nights and there are going to be people in your life who support you and some who won't. Me and Tom, we can be there for you. What I'm telling you will make sense in time, and you don't have to do this in isolation. That's a hard road, and I want better for you.'

The air seems to coagulate with Matt's heavy dread. Toey's right, Matt sees that - it's the reason he got in contact with him in the first place, knowing that it was the thing he needed to do to push himself through the mud he's sunk into. And yet, nothing could be more daunting right now than the notion of coming out to his family and his church friends. He'd rather bowl to AB de Villiers.

'So what do you want? Like, right now. Cos I can help, if you tell me how.'

The family and church stuff, Matt isn't really sure how Toey can help him with that. 'I don't really know, eh. I'm sort of interested to find out what's good about being gay though.'

A sneaky smile plays across Toey's mouth. 'Definitely can help with that. Keep this weekend free, okay.'

Matt throws an extraneous cushion at Henry's head. 'You know what I want? Those Tim Tams you promised.'

*

Breathe. Matt has to remind himself.

'Just breathe,' Toey, who's standing next to him in the queue, tells him. 'It's just a party, not the Cricket World Cup.' 

On Toey's right hand side is Tom, brandishing three rainbow-coloured tickets.

Oh sure, says Matt's inner correspondent, having promptly forgotten the inhale-exhale instructions. It's just a party. Just the Pride Afterparty. What did I let these two talk me into?

He keeps swishing his head side to side, to make sure no-one he knows is wandering past. Like a cousin, or his brother, or someone from church. He can't hide under this age-dirtied Edwardian pubfront, festooned with every shade of balloon and rainbow miniflags sprouting here there and everywhere, and an insistent bassy pulse thrumming out into the night. 

'Couldn't they have made it a little more discreet?' he asks, fidgeting with his nails and wondering when telltale shooting pains up the arm are going to set in.

Behind him, an eavesdropper pipes up, a willowy blonde dyke. 'It's called the Pride Afterparty, not the Shame Afterparty.' She smiles gently, to ease her sarcasm. 'This is the one day of the year that we get to shout it from the rooftops.'

'Besides,' Toey adds, linking an arm in Matt's. 'It's Lyttelton on a Saturday night. Squares are the last people you need to worry about seeing.'

The timing couldn't have been more (or less, depending on how you look at it) serendipitous, really, reconnecting with Tom and Toey - right before Pride weekend. And with Christchurch's gay bar, Cruz, damaged in the quake, other venues had to be considered. Including, evidently, the one that the Pride committee settled on - over the Port Hills.

'Hold my place, would you?' Tom tells them, pushing the tickets into Toey's hand. 

'Where's he going?' Matt asks. He's not worried that Tom and Toey are going to ditch him at the big scary gayfest. Nosireebob. Completely unfazed. 

'Oh, did he not tell you?' Toey says, as they move forward a few steps in the queue. 'We're finding you a man tonight. He's examining the guys lining up to see what's on offer.'

'You're what?' Matt feels what's left of the blood in his face draining away.

Toey flashes him a pointed look, both eyebrows raised. 'What did you imagine you would be doing at the Pride Afterparty? Watching The Powerpuff Girls, sipping Sprite and eating Pebbles?'

'I would have settled for drinks and a drag show…' he trails off. The evening telescopes out ahead of him vertiginously. Is it normal to sweat this much on a freezing night?

'Breathe,' Toey reminds him a second time. 'Don't worry about it. We're just going to find some hot guys and introduce you to each other. No-one's arranging marriage.'

At last, Matt inhales a full deep breath. When Toey puts it like that, it sounds reasonable. Of course he'll be meeting new people at Pride. It's not like anyone is expecting anything. In any case, Matt's not sure what he has to offer.

They shuffle forward another few steps. They're close to the entrance now. 

'Whatever you do, you guys _cannot_ leave me by myself.'

Toey laughs. 'Stop. Worrying. It's going to be fine. Give it an hour, see how it goes. If you're having a terrible time, you're free to go, and we'll come with you. For moral support.'

'You must think I'm ridiculous.'

'All the best people are!'

'Guys!' Tom pats them both on the back as he comes bowling up to meet them near the head of the queue. 'I've just met some likely specimens and they're dying to meet the guest of honour!'

'I'm not the guest of honour. Nor am I a pig on a spit. Or whatever.' Matt shoots Tom a withering look.

'You're welcome,' Tom says, and snatches the tickets back from Toey. They shuffle up to the door, where a very tall, very dragged-out Samoan greets them to take their tickets and rainbow-stamp their wrists. 'Talofa,' she says brightly, 'how's Pride treating you?'

'Great!' Toey tells her. 'Lucky the weather held for the Picnic in the Park eh?'

'Yup.' She waves them off. 'Have a magical night, boys!'

*

The Lady Gaga beat is unmistakable now they're inside, and the coloured lights reflect off the mirror ball, making festive circles swirl around the room. The dancefloor is empty save for a few lipstick lesbians, at least a decade older than them. Everyone else is clustered around the bar.

You're here now, Matt. You've made it this far. Give it an hour, his inner voice echoes Toey's words from a few moments ago.

Tom and Toey make a beeline for the bar. Matt stands and stares after them, unsure what to do, because he doesn't drink.

In a split second, he realises that 'drink' is what devout Catholic Matt doesn't do. Devout Catholic Matt doesn't do men, either. Doesn't party with gay Christchurch. And yet, here he is, already damned, already a sinner. 

Already at the bar with his mates. Tom hails a bartender and orders Toey a Tequila Sunrise, gets himself a beer. 'And one Coke,' he adds, turning to glance at Matt, making sure the order meets his approval.

'Scratch the Coke,' Matt declines. 'I'll get a beer too. Same as what he's having.'

Toey's gasp is audible, even above the din. But before anyone has a chance to remark upon Matt's sudden interest in drinking, a voice sounds out from somewhere behind the threesome: 'My shout.' They all swivel necks to find out who their mysterious benefactor is. 

A glimmer of recognition animates Tom's face. 'Wiremu, right?' Seeing Wiremu nod, he explains to the others, 'We met in the queue.' They all squeeze to one side, making room for Wiremu to get to the bar and the EFTPOS machine. 

Wiremu's of medium height, just an inch or two taller than Toey. He's muscular - very muscular. Looks like he clocks up hours every day on his upper body. He has elaborate tā moko on his upper arms, dimples in his cheeks and the sort of round chocolate eyes that you could lose days of your life staring into. 

Not that Matty's checking him out or anything. 

Wiremu picks the same dark beer that Tom and Matty have already ordered. Three capless misty brown bottles are placed on the bar before them, and finally a cocktail, in a tall glass, red liquid pooling in the bottom amidst the ice and blending into bright orange as it ascends. The bartender extends the EFTPOS machine to Wiremu, and when the transaction is complete, the four of them cluster, eyeing around the venue until they notice a vacant drinks table. 

Toey's first to introduce himself. 'I'm Henry, and I can't believe we haven't met before. Where in Shakeytown have you been hiding?'

Turns out, Wiremu's new to Christchurch. He's a builder, come to help with the rebuild. 

'And you look like you've had some earthquake-strengthening too. I'll know where to hide at the next sign of seismic activity.'

Matt can't quite believe the things that come out of Toey's mouth sometimes - and how much of it he gets away with it. 

'I'm Matt.' He offers Wiremu a big chirpy smile as they walk to the vacant table, positioned at the rear of the bar, overlooking a pool table where women in flannel shirts chalk their pool cues. 

'Thanks for the beer.' He takes a tentative sip. He's only had alcohol one other time before, a couple of years ago at under 19s winter training camp down at Lincoln. It was vodka, and it was revolting. This isn't much better, it's all full and bitter, but at least it doesn't sting on the way down. 'It's nice,' he frowns, not at all convincing with the lie.

'Get you something else? A lager?' Wiremu offers.

'No, but thank you. I'm just not used to beer. Or drinking, to be honest.'

'Yeah? That's cool. Wellahhh, "Get it down ya" as they say.' He says this to the group, and they clink glass around the table. Tom and Toey start their own side conversation, debating the sartorial merits of the other party-goers. Matt examines his really rather mundane brown beer-bottle. It's much like any other. He tries to muster up a conversation starter. 

'So you're new in town. Braving the city of rock and roll.'

Wiremu shrugs. 'I'm from Gizzi mate. We're pretty used to Rūamoko giving Papatūānuku a big kick eh.'

Matt has no idea what Wiremu's talking about. 

Wiremu is 28. He was self-employed in his sleepy hometown of Gisborne, or Gizzi, as he calls it, until he realised the diamond of an opportunity for work in Christchurch with the rebuild. Now he's here as an independent contractor. Gets good money, he says. He's pleased to find out the boys are all cricketers; has had his own moments with leather and willow, back in the day, though he's pretty squarely wedded to the big leather Gilbert ball now. He looks it too, thinks Matt. Built like a forward, all brawny upper body strength. His size takes Matt skidding back to last summer as though he's Bambi on ice. And then there's the easy charm, the soft-spoken nature of a big man so at home in his physicality that he doesn't need to take up space with his presence or his voice.

This is also why, when Wiremu places a hand on Matt's upper arm in flirtation, Matt brushes it away. The gradual fizz of intoxication in his bloodstream, the slow relaxing mud of alcohol working on his mind might feel good, might lend him a certain curiosity about this man. But Matt was intimate with someone like him once, someone with a different face, and that someone sunk a hand right through his chest, easy like he was diving into the ocean, impaled his heart in the process and then walked away like a - a bully. Like a coward. 

Wiremu's not Corey, he knows it like he knows night from day. But the idea of going through it again, of getting close to someone only to be so profoundly crushed, leaves Matt's mouth dry and his chest sore.

There are other guys tonight, too. There's Andy, a chatty, affable guy, another of Tommy's finds from the queue, someone he beckons over after Wiremu gives up to look for more seduce-able company. Andy's tall and toned-looking, stupidly pretty but for a pair of ears that herald his arrival like wings: the kind of interesting feature that turns pretty into compelling. He has eyelashes for weeks, blond gelled sticky-up hair and a smattering of freckles. He and Matt get to chatting about their lives, but it turns out they have nothing in common. Andy's doing a Masters in Gender Studies at the University of Canterbury, thinks sport is 'an example of the machinery of hegemonic masculinity', whatever that is, and is into yoga, transcendental meditation, and 'the interstices between theatre and dance'. 

Andy's charismatic, but kinda pretentious. He rolls his eyes at the mention of cricket.

About three beers later, Matt musters up the courage to do his own mingling, now that Tom and Toey have abandoned him for the dancefloor. Beer's starting to taste like dirty water, and the throb of alcohol through him is indistinguishable from the inescapable pulse of the music. He squints his eyes shut, opens them again, the better to clear out the strange sway of his brain, the slight but pervasive unsteadiness around him, but it's still there. So this is what drinking's like, eh? 

Wait, who's that?

At the bar, a blond quiffed head set atop a huge shelf of shoulders. Dwarfing everyone around him. Matt watches himself make for the empty space next to The Shelf at the bar, as if from outside of himself, from the ceiling, like he's powerless to halt each step forward. It can't be Corey, Corey's gone. But he has to see this guy's face, he has to know _empirically_ , without a doubt that it's not him. Has to know why he suddenly feels awake, alive and angry, after months on end of mere tedious existing.

The brown eyes and lengthy face he meets near crush him flat with their not-Coreyness. The guy introduces himself but Matt keeps staring back, unhearing, in disbelief and disappointment. He clears his throat to apologise, makes some sort of noise, maybe it was words, he's not entirely certain, and turns around again looking for the refuge of the bathroom. Once inside, he finds himself splashing cold water on his flushed face, next to a drag queen freshening her makeup. He's too shook up about what just happened to register the novelty of sharing a public bathroom mirror with a feminine-looking person. Truth be told, going to a gay event, not to mention Tom and Toey's insistence on trying to set him up, it all feels too sudden. And it hasn't just been his feelings about men that he's been swallowing down all this time. It's his very particular feelings about a very particular man. He might've been able to fool himself that he's over the summer past for a while. But right this moment as he takes in his reddened reflection, he sees his mistake only too clearly.

'You right, tootsie?' says the overdrawn burgundy mouth next to him.

Suddenly there's a world around him, outside his body again.

'Uh, yeah,' he tells her. 'Just had a moment.'

'Should be illegal for someone as cute as you to have moments,' she winks. 'I hope it's not because of a man. Don't give a lady a reason to take her earrings off.'

Matt manages something akin to a smile. 'Leave them on. He's far away.'

'Oh god, you're in love.'  
'Really? It feels awful. I sort of want to scratch his eyes out. No,' he pauses, changing his mind. 'I think I want to scratch my own eyes out. I should be over it by now. How can I be still thinking six months later about something that lasted half a week?'

She pouts a few times at her mirror image, and then pulls a black pencil out of the large cosmetic bag she has with her. 'I don't know, sweetheart. But I promise, the only way to deal with it is to have as much meaningless sex as you can. You're too hot to be sad. Go back out there and find yourself someone to have fun with.'

As he leaves the bathroom, Matt has the distinct feeling that everyone's desperate for him to hook up because his joylessness is unbearable to the point of infectious. 

If he just gets a bit less sober, maybe he'll even want to hook up too. 

It's back to the bar then. He asks for something stronger, and receives a shot glass of tequila, a wedge of lemon and a shaker of salt. The bartender has to tell him what to do with all the extra bells and whistles.

He's not alone for long. Tom and Toey pull up either side of him, and, on seeing his little one-man-tequila party, decide to gatecrash. 

'What', bellows Toey, 'are you still doing at Pride? I was sure you'd be knee deep in dick by now.' He throws a shot across his tongue, and slams the glass back on the counter, making a face as he sucks the lemon wedge.

Matt envisages wading through a swamp of penises. It's weird. 

'I don't think I'm drunk enough. But I'm trying to be. How drunk should I be? Should I be at the point where I forget my Mum's birthday, or should I be aiming to forget my name?'

'I'm kidding, I'm kidding!' Toey protests. 'You don't have to go home with anyone. Honestly, I'm just impressed you came. And look,' he checks the clock on his phone, 'You've been here not one hour but two. You are practically a gold star lesbian.'

'I'd say more of a monk,' smirks Tom. 'You should come and dance with us.'

'I'm not really a dancer,' Matt says. 

'Last I heard, you weren't a drinker either.' Toey takes hold of one wrist, Tom the other, and they lead him down to the packed dancefloor. He hasn't the wherewithal to protest further, and at any rate, he's not as steady on his feet as he was half an hour ago. 'Don't sweat it, Mary,' Toey says, batting his eyelids. 'I've got you,' and he guides Matt's arms, one at a time, to rest on his shoulders. It's probably easiest, given the height distance. And it certainly helps him with the whole standing-up thing, having someone to lean on. Meanwhile, Tom is sort of sidling up behind him, arms around his waist. Matt finds he doesn't have to do much but sway. It's surprisingly cosy. It's, it's… nice.

The rest of Pride is making a deafening din of the chorus of 'Umbrella' by Rihanna. All Matt can make out through his progressively foggy eyes is the shine of glasses being held up in the air. 

At some point, Toey suggests he come home with him and Tom. As in, _come home_.

They take a cab back into the city, kissing each other by turns in the back seat. A hand slides up his leg, a thumb traces along the semi that's thickening in his pants. Another is grabbing a fistful of his hair at the back of his head as a tongue enters his mouth. He's fully drunk now, not completely aware of what's going on, but it feels good, in a warm, sleepy sort of way.  
No sooner is he inside their flat than he collapses on the couch in the living room, lost to sleep. 

Tom and Toey tiptoe into their bedroom to retrieve some spare blankets from the wardrobe. They sneak back in, and layer the bedding over their resting friend, who is already snoring, mouth agape as if catching flies. In the morning, they all have a good laugh together over brunch, about how drunk they must have been to consider having a threesome, and vow to never speak of it again. 

Matt would normally be at church right now, with his family. He's missed it, and is surprised to not find a single shred of guilt inside himself over it. 

He's parched and headached and hungover, and he thinks to himself, 'After all that, I _did_ have fun last night. Perhaps I can do this.' 

The bacon and egg brunch starts to seem insubstantial in the face of the 'this' that he has to do. 

'Guys,' he says, unable to disguise the waver in his voice. 'How did you tell your parents?'

**Author's Note:**

> With respect to Toey's speech about societal homophobia, when he says 'We can't get married'... Marriage equality only passed in NZ in 2013. 
> 
> tā moko - tattoos
> 
>  
> 
> _Wiremu shrugs. 'I'm from Gizzi mate. We're pretty used to Rūamoko giving Papatūānuku a big kick eh.'_
> 
>  
> 
> In Te Ao Māori, Papatūānuku is a deity conceived of as the Earth. Rūamoko is the god of earthquakes and volcanic activity. He is Papatūānuku's unborn child, living inside her, and when there is an earthquake, it's Rūamoko kicking.


End file.
